’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest. Charcoal. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. She had intended to be quietly dignified, but he was in a smouldering rage from the beginning, and began by assuming, which alone was more than flesh and blood could stand, that the insurrection was over and that she was coming home submissively. Her teachers and mistresses had done their best to stamp her mind with an ineradicable persuasion that it was tremendously important, and on no account to be thought about.
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